Stone Cold Dead

by Catherine Dilts

  Morgan turned from the window to face Del and Cindy. “I’m not thinking about that boy. Consider this. What if a person was put up to telling a tall tale?”

  “I don’t follow you,” Del said.

  “The girl who was murdered,” Morgan said. “Suppose someone told her to accuse Pastor Filbury, or paid her to.”

  “Or forced her to,” Cindy said.

  “Now you’ve opened up a whole new can of worms,” Del said. “Who put her up to it and why?”

  “Maybe she had to say horrible things about our pastor as part of her initiation into a coven,” Cindy said.

  “Piers has been trying to push through his zoning changes for years,” Morgan said. “He might have gotten impatient with Pastor Filbury, and figured out a way to end his influence on City Council.”

  “As much as I want to buy that scenario,” Del said, tugging the end of his mustache, “there could be other people who would stand to gain from the deal besides Piers.”

  Morgan suspected Del was thinking of the man on the stone bridge.

  “That still doesn’t solve the murder.” Morgan brushed a hand through her shoulder-length curls. “If anything, it would give Piers a stronger reason to keep Dawn alive.”

  The phone rang. Cindy picked it up.

  “Rock of Ages. Oh, hi, Beatrice. Yup, she’s here.” Cindy put her hand over the receiver. “It’s Beatrice. It’s for you.” She handed the phone to Morgan.

  “Did you call the Run for Amanda team?” Beatrice asked.

  “Yes,” Morgan said into the phone. “I told everyone to gather at Oak and Fourth.” Morgan walked to the office. “Those who are still going, anyway.” She consulted the clipboard on the desk. “Three people who signed up told me they aren’t attending Golden Springs Community Church anymore, so we shouldn’t expect them to participate with us.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Beatrice said. “Some folks fall away quickly.”

  “You have to admit, it’s a touchy issue.” Morgan sat at the desk. “Child molestation is one of those concerns where people are entitled to overreact.”

  “It’s ridiculous to end a relationship with a church based on rumor and speculation,” Beatrice said. “Pastor Filbury did not do the horrible things that girl accused him of.”

  “I agree,” Morgan said. “Although some people may never be convinced one way or the other, now that the girl is dead.”

  “Dawn Smith was a drug addict. She would have lied to get her next fix.”

  “Are the toxicology results in?” Morgan asked.

  “Not yet,” Beatrice said, “but I am confident they will prove me right.”

  “Why would she lie about Pastor Filbury?” Morgan asked.

  “I’ve heard that her boyfriend was a hard character. Maybe he put her up to it. They were probably high on drugs.”

  “That still doesn’t answer the main question,” Morgan asked. “Who killed her?”

  “That gang they hung around with might have forced her to accuse the pastor,” Beatrice said, “and then killed her.”

  Beatrice’s theory didn’t make any sense to Morgan. She steered the conversation back to the race. They settled the final details, and Beatrice hung up.

  Morgan leaned back in the chair.

  While it seemed plausible that the drug-addict boyfriend might have killed the girl, and dumped her body on the trail, that didn’t answer why she had accused the pastor, or whether the two issues were related. Morgan shook her head.

  “Great. One more suspect.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Morgan woke to the phone ringing. Wondering what emergency could cause a person to call at six o’clock on a Saturday, she dragged herself out of the soft, warm bed and into the chilly kitchen.

  “Good morning?”

  “This is Lucy.” The line crackled. “I can barely hear you.”

  “The phone doesn’t work well when it snows.”

  “It’s not snowing now, and it didn’t snow enough last night to cancel the race. If any of your church people call, it’s still on.”

  “How much did it snow?”

  “You haven’t been outside yet?” Lucy asked. “It’s just a dusting. I’ll see you at the park.”

  Peeking through the curtain on the back door, Morgan saw more than what she considered a dusting. She dressed in layers. So many layers that it was difficult to squeeze behind the steering wheel. She moved the driver’s seat back a notch.

  Morgan turned the key several times before the engine started. Hill Street was slippery under the worn tires. She hoped she could make it back up the road after the race.

  Bernie waited outside the back door of the bakery.

  “I think we should drive to the park,” she said as she climbed in. “Considering the snow and all.”

  Morgan didn’t argue.

  “I was worried you’d be late.” Bernie stuck a to-go cup of coffee into Morgan’s cup holder. “Here, this is yours.”

  “Bless you!” Morgan sipped the steaming brew when she stopped at a stop sign. “I didn’t have time to get breakfast.”

  Bernie lifted a white paper bag and opened the top. “I brought blueberry scones, too.”

  “That’s the kind of survival gear I want.” Morgan reached into the bag. She ate and drove while Bernie scanned for a parking spot close to the park.

  “There,” Bernie said. “In front of Sparrow’s store.”

  Morgan started to pull in, but an orange cone squatted dead center in the parking space. Sparrow’s battered van sat on one side of the space. On the other was a motor scooter. Before Morgan could put the car in reverse, Sparrow ran outside. Her cheap flip-flops slid on the snow-packed sidewalk. Morgan rolled her window down.

  “These spaces are taken!” Sparrow screamed.

  The odor of unwashed clothes and marijuana smoke rolled off Sparrow’s sloppy thrift-store ensemble.

  “I was just backing out,” Morgan said.

  Sparrow shook her meaty fist. “You out-of-towners think you can just show up and take whatever you want!”

  Morgan backed out and rolled up her window to avoid the rest of Sparrow’s tirade.

  “Yeesh,” Bernie muttered. “Somebody got up on the wrong side of the futon.”

  “Let’s try the other side of the park.” Morgan drove down Fourth Street to Pine Avenue.

  “There’s one,” Bernie said. “Oh, no, it’s a handicapped space. Quick. Over there. We can’t miss the start.”

  Morgan squeezed her car into a parking space. “Why not?”

  “They record your time at the finish.”

  Morgan groaned. “Is it too late to back out?”

  “You’ll have to tell Lucy. We’d never hear the end of it.”

  “I guess we’re committed, then.”

  Morgan climbed out of the car. She lengthened the waist strap on Del’s pack and fastened it on over her layers.

  “The more I think about it,” Bernie said, her eyes on the pack, “maybe you shouldn’t be wandering through the woods carrying nothing but a Buck knife and duct tape. If I’d just been assaulted, I’m sure I wouldn’t leave my house for a month.”

  “Over a hundred people are going on this run. Isn’t there a saying about safety in numbers?” Morgan patted the heavy pack. “I’ll be safe.”

  Six volunteers sat on metal folding chairs behind two utility tables. A banner that read “registration” had been taped to the front of the tables.

  Morgan handed her church-team list to the woman sitting behind a “teams” sign. Just a glimpse of honey-brown skin, flushed from the cold, peeked out from layers of a fuzzy green neck scarf.

  “Here are your bib numbers,” the woman said.

  She handed Morgan a stack of square sheets of heavy-duty paper printed with “Run for Amanda” and sequential numbers.

  “You’ll need these,” the woman said, and poured a handful of safety pins into Morgan’s mitten-covered palm.

  Morgan must have looked confus
ed, because the woman added, “You pin the bib to the front of your shirt. Don’t tear off the strip at the bottom. They’ll need that at the finish line.”

  “Thanks.”

  Morgan turned to leave.

  “Don’t forget your shirts!” the woman called.

  “Shirts?” Morgan asked.

  The volunteer shoved a dozen clear plastic drawstring bags into Morgan’s arms.

  “Morgan, look.” Bernie held up a T-shirt. “Run for Amanda” was printed on the white cotton, arching above a bouquet of columbine flowers that bloomed in front of a palm tree.

  “We get shirts!” Bernie squealed.

  “What’s the palm tree for?” Morgan asked.

  “Amanda Palmquist, of course. And columbines are the state flower.”

  Bernie helped Morgan carry the bags with the team’s shirts to the picnic table where church members were waiting. Three lean youngsters dressed in running clothes stomped the snow-covered ground like impatient racehorses. The rest of the team was heavier, older, and dressed for the cold, although none wore winter coats like Morgan and Bernie. The oldest team member was Beatrice, but she opted to guard everyone’s coats and hats.

  “I’m not going to walk,” she said. “It’s too slippery.”

  One young man shivered in shorts and a mesh T-shirt. Morgan might have appeared overdressed in her blue jeans and winter coat, but she was warm.

  “You must be freezing,” Bernie said to the young man.

  “I won’t be when I start running.”

  He pinned his bib number to the front of his shirt. Morgan followed suit, starting to pin her number to her coat.

  “You’re not wearing that.” Anna looked lean and mean in gray fleece running slacks and a lightweight fleece jacket with the Granite Junction Zoo logo covering the back.

  “It’s cold,” Morgan said. “And I’m not running.”

  “You might feel cold right now,” Anna said, “but once you get moving, you’ll start sweating.”

  “Lucy told us the same thing at O’Reily’s,” Bernie said. “And she was right.”

  Bernie shed her coat, handing it to Beatrice. Morgan unstrapped the fanny pack, removed her coat, and readjusted the pack’s straps.

  “You won’t need that, either.” Anna pointed at Morgan’s pack.

  “This goes with me,” Morgan said.

  “Morgan’s paranoid,” Bernie said, “and I don’t blame her, after what your boss printed in his scandal rag of a newspaper.”

  “Kurt didn’t let me proofread his special edition,” Anna said. “Morgan, I’m sorry for the things he said. If I had known, I would have tried to stop him.”

  “I don’t blame you, Anna. Do you know who gave him the information?”

  “His source? No.”

  “Does Kurt hang around with any people with tattoos? Specifically, a gargoyle tattoo?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  The tinny sound of a voice on a loudspeaker interrupted.

  “They’re lining up,” Beatrice said. “Let’s pray.”

  “Okay team,” Morgan said. “Gather round.”

  The dozen members of Golden Springs Community Church formed a semicircle facing Beatrice. When she had everyone’s attention, Beatrice spoke, bowing her head and closing her eyes.

  “Lord, please keep us safe. As we enjoy this event, keep us mindful of our purpose, to help a family in need. We pray for Amanda’s continued healing.” She paused for a beat. “Amen.” Beatrice looked up at Morgan.

  “We’re all starting together,” Morgan said, “but I’m sure we’ll be moving at different speeds. We’ve already achieved our goal, which was showing our support for Amanda Palmquist. Now go out there and have fun!”

  The group broke up, moving to different spots in front of the start line. Morgan had envisioned something more elaborate than the blue chalk line across the sidewalk. A digital timer mounted on a tripod counted backwards. Someone made announcements on a squawking loudspeaker that Morgan couldn’t understand.

  “There’s Barton,” Bernie said.

  Morgan looked around. Barton had on a few more clothes than the young man on the church team, but not by much. His shirt had long sleeves, and he wore running pants. Runners crowded close to the starting line, but Morgan worked her way through to Barton.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Kind of busy right now,” he said, stretching one leg behind him.

  “Barton, about the other day, at the rock shop, I’ve been kind of jumpy, with all that’s happened.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Del told me he trusts you, and I trust Del.”

  Barton glanced at Morgan, then continued stretching.

  “I apologize for asking those questions,” Morgan said. “Baseless accusations are not usually my style.”

  Barton stood. He studied Morgan for a moment, then held out his hand.

  “Apology accepted.”

  An obnoxious air horn sounded. The mass of runners surged forward. People funneled from the park onto the sidewalk. Morgan found Bernie toward the back of the pack.

  “I saw you shake hands with Barton,” Bernie said. “I’m glad that’s resolved. This town is too small to have enemies.”

  They walked briskly, covering two blocks of paved sidewalk in just a few minutes. It had been plowed, and the icy spots sprinkled with sand.

  “If it’s like this the whole way,” Morgan said, “Beatrice will wish she’d come along.”

  The sidewalk ended at a dirt parking lot. Morgan watched the walkers ahead of them funnel through a narrow gap in a split-rail fence and disappear into the woods.

  They followed through the fence and found a wide, snow-packed dirt trail. Although it branched in three directions, it was easy to follow the correct path. Over a hundred runners had stomped it into mud and slush.

  “Great,” Bernie said. “Our new shoes will be filthy.”

  Behind them came the sound of rapid splashing. They stopped and turned.

  “Lucy!”

  “I was helping with registration,” Lucy said, “but I’m running, too. How are you gals doing?”

  “Piece of cake.” Bernie laughed.

  Morgan pointed down the trail. “Look. We’re not last.”

  An older couple walked behind them. They might have been casual hikers at the pace they were moving, except for the distinctive bib numbers pinned to their windbreakers.

  “Those are sweepers,” Lucy said.

  “They clean up the trail after people?” Bernie asked.

  “No,” Lucy said, “they make sure no one is left behind. They’ll follow you the whole way. And Pine County Search and Rescue will be driving an ATV around with a first-aid kit. I’m going to run. Have fun!” She took off, making fresh footprints in the slush. “Oh,” she called over her shoulder, “it’s an out-and-back. You can’t get lost.”

  “What did she say?” Bernie asked.

  “Something like outback.”

  “I wonder what that means.”

  “No idea.”

  “My feet are cold,” Bernie said. “And wet.”

  “We just got started.”

  The trail had been relatively level, following a frozen creek. Now it curved toward the hillside to the right. Morgan struggled to keep her footing on the slippery trail. Her lungs burned as she gulped in cold air, her breath coming out in clouds. The trail crested at the top of the hill. The trampled path stretched across a wide, flat hilltop thinly populated with pine trees.

  “There they go.” Bernie pointed.

  Runners disappeared over the far side of the hill.

  Morgan tugged back the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “We’ve been walking at least fifteen minutes. We can’t have far to go.”

  “I don’t know,” Bernie said. “It takes us twenty minutes at O’Reily’s, and we only walk half of that 5K.”

  The loud rumble of an ATV engine sounded behind them. The driver slowed as he pulled alongside. In his puffy do
wn jacket, Rolf made the oversized search and rescue ATV appear small.

  “Hi, Morgan.” He spoke loudly, to be heard over the idling engine. Exhaust fumes spewed into the crisp air. “You gals doing okay?”

  “So far, so good,” Bernie answered, “but ask me in another mile.”

  “Another?” Rolf said. “You haven’t hit the first mile marker yet.”

  Bernie groaned.

  He stuck out his glove-covered hand. “I’m Rolf.”

  Bernie grasped his hand. “Bernie Belmont.”

  “Of Bibi’s Bakery?”

  Bernie’s green eyes sparkled. “The same!”

  “I love your banana bread.” Rolf patted the passenger seat. “You can ride with me.”

  “This is my first race ever,” Bernie said. “I want to keep going.”

  “You’re doing better than me,” Rolf said. “I agreed to drive the ATV, but no way I’m running.”

  Morgan clamped her arms around her torso and shivered. “We’d better keep moving.”

  “See you at the finish line.” Rolf sped ahead, the tires kicking up slushy snow.

  They trudged across the hilltop, nearing the end of the flat area. Bernie told Morgan that she remembered seeing Rolf at the bakery, buying banana bread.

  “He’s such a nice guy,” Bernie said. “One of the last true gentlemen.”

  While Bernie talked, Morgan watched the forest. Every movement put her on high alert, until she identified the culprit as a fluttering bird or scampering squirrel. Then she noticed something that didn’t fit into the natural scenery and felt her jittery nerves justified. The chilly breeze whipped the tails of a long black coat against the tree trunk.

  “Bernie, someone’s hiding behind that tree.”

  “Don’t point. It must be a guy who couldn’t wait for the porta potty.”

  The cloak disappeared from view.

  “I can’t see him now.” Morgan held on to Bernie’s sleeve. “Slow down. I think he’s watching us.”

  She unzipped the pack at her waist and fumbled for the pepper spray with mitten-covered hands.

  “You think it’s the man who attacked you on the bridge?” Bernie whispered.

  “He’s wearing the same kind of coat. I’m not taking any chances.”

  Morgan pulled off one mitten and held the spray canister in front of her. As she and Bernie crept closer to the tree, the sweepers caught up to them.